


anthony edward stark; winged merchant of death

by cipherkins



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Wings, Backstory, Wingfic, added elements from the webtoon 'the croaking', based off an alternate universe roleplay where winged people & mundanes coexist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:47:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cipherkins/pseuds/cipherkins
Summary: humans often go by the law that anything different must be destroyed, with this still applied to when years ago, the first winged was born. said child was born with bird wings sprouting from their back, leaving the parents horrified. as situations like this kept going on, and the numbers doubling every so often, most ended up in bad homes or just shot dead in the woods. as a winged you have no place in this world, but you keep going, finding abandoned places to stay and such. will you find somewhere permanent? maybe a group to belong to? it's hard to say in this world.well, let me tell you the story of a certain winged; one, who lived double lives.
Kudos: 19





	anthony edward stark; winged merchant of death

**Author's Note:**

> since i've spent an all-nighter writing this, i do apologize for any grammar mistakes and spelling errors :)

he was five years old when he first learned to fly; pouring hours upon hours into his daily ‘classes’, which literally meant jumping off the roof of his family manor, expectant of his wings to support his entire body weight- _or at least aid in the breaking of his fall_ -and would result in him plummeting into the ground & getting a mouthful of grass, or gliding… into a tree. either way, both results were half a dozen of the other, with the latter inflicting a bunch of scars on his youthful features, and crumpling wee feathers. 

though fret not, with that big brain of his, he soon had it all figured out for him; from the inner workings of aerodynamics to the principles of flight, allowing him to grasp and fiddle with the basics of maintaining flight in air. of course, his parents, especially his father, heed no mind to his achievement, as he would only receive a word of encouragement from his private tutor. 

he was ten years old when he found his fingers entangled around the trigger of a gun; the deafening gunshots emitting from the gun itself ricocheting off his eardrums, the oh-so pleasure inducing sound of splintering wood, and leftover metal casings littered across the hard surface, he could feel his father’s gaze piercing through his soul. 

mandatory training, his father would say whenever they strolled down to the shooting range. being his only son, he followed every given instruction, albeit blindly, wanting to please him. and, damn, the people pleaser that he is.

he was only eleven years old when he was named sharpshooter; the youngest in his murder. the slight quirk of his father’s lips which disappeared as soon as it appeared, reassured him in a way. 

he secretly hoped to see more of that again.

he was fourteen years old when he had gotten hold of a blade that he could finally call his very own; though he must admit, mastering the art of knife-fighting is significantly harder than learning how to fly, and using firearms. but he’ll manage.

and manage he did. 

he was seventeen years old when he experienced the sickly sensation of dampness on his clothing, the liquid in question being nothing but blood; brutal, as his entire being was showered with it. his blade, held ever so tightly in his hand, gleaming blood red.

since it was his first time participating in the extermination of an entire murder, and his first killing as well, a feast was hosted in his honour. while everyone either danced/partied the night away, or drank to their heart’s delight, he’d instead spend the rest of his night desiring to be anywhere but around his murder. he longed for the comfort of his own bed, where he can succumb to much needed slumber, thus shielding himself from the horrors and the weight of the world.

he was nineteen when he started on the journey of invention and creation; sure, although he was already building stuff since he was four, it was until a later age that he had an epiphany. 

he realized that the sleepless nights spent working on his own projects distracted himself from reflecting on his deeds, on his duty, as the only son of howard stark, leader of new york’s infamous underground murder. how many winged had he killed, for their blood to shed over his very own hands? often finding himself asking the same question after every death that he'd caused, he was still unable to come up with a proper answer. 

he was twenty-one when he appeared on the news as one of new york’s up and coming ceos; founder of his own startup company, leader at the cutting edge of electronics and the contemporary scientific industry. no one questioned his whereabouts during board meetings. and clearly, the press wasn’t too curious about that either, seeing that his secretary tended to everything. heck, even she was slowly becoming a favourite among them. 

thanks to the wonders of photoshop, each and every picture of him seemed mundane to the public’s eye. and god, were they fooled

to them, tony stark was an impressive young ceo, an eminent mastermind, and.. a recluse. 

little did they know, everything was a front, a front for everything he committed under the stark name. double lives for an anthony stark who roamed the streets & alleyways during the wee hours of the night, and a certain tony stark, who’d usually spend most of his days in his workshop, rarely appearing to staff members and colleagues alike. an exception for pepper, though.

his parents were long dead, killed in a feud between rivaling murders. leaving behind a powerful legacy and a group of killers, leading was what he did most nights. that is, until karma came knocking on his door.

stripped of his wings. the blinding pain of it all. the torture. was this what his enemies felt seconds before their deaths? was it? 

too much. no more. he wasn't equipped with the right mentality and experience to deal with this. 

too much. no more. stop.

please.

stop.

he was twenty-four when he escaped from the clutches of his captors; he could never view afghanistan the same way again. 

he was twenty-four when his murder disbanded. with the number of murders slowly depleting around the world due to it becoming taboo; it was his wish. 

no more, pain.

he was twenty-four when the looks started; the initial shock that pepper had upon seeing him wingless. the abundant pitiful glances that he'd receive from his old murder associates. everything. 

alcohol became his coping mechanism. and craigellachie was his favourite.

he was twenty-four, and he’d hit rock bottom. _and if you hit rock bottom, the only way to go is up_.

up.

he was twenty-six when he yearned to feel the wind in his hair; flying was his only reason to live. and without it, it seems that he couldn’t find the means to go on.

he was thirty when he witnessed the cruel reality of this universe; the coexistence of the winged and mundane. the winged, who were shunned and rejected, humiliated and harrassed, an act of injustice. who were them to be blamed for the circumstances of their birth? it wasn’t even their fault!

many took to the streets in protest. and many died in return. 

they started hiding their wings in an effort to fit in. 

_“legend has it that people who were born with wings are blessed by god himself. manifestations of their very soul, it’s a gift to have them.”_

untrue. if anything, they’re really just some mere bird human mutant hybrid thing, but oh well, it’s the thought that counts. 

hidden ‘soul wings’ due to discrimination, this is why mundanes can’t have nice things. 

he was thirty-four when he developed a prototype for his prosthetic wings; silvery blue with a sheen to it, made of enhanced liquid metal-fused nanotechnology, it was perfect. it was all.. his.

no one needs to know of anthony edward stark; whom they called the merchant of death. his involvement in the deaths of a couple thousand winged, his ordeal in afghanistan, his entire life living as a damned crow, symbol of bad omens. adding to the stereotype that all corvidae are made of bad stuff. 

hidden away beneath the ugly mass of scar tissue on his shoulder blades and back, a maze of decades old pain and suffering.

he’s.. tony; ceo of stark industries. genius. billionaire. philanthropist. playboy? not so much. 

_tony_. 

he could finally feel the wind in his hair again.

**Author's Note:**

> murder = basically a criminal organization centered around a group of birds ( the naming convention for murders are (surname) murder; ie: stark murder )  
> sharpshooter = one who is highly proficient at firing firearms or other projectile weapons accurately


End file.
